Home to a world where my dad, my favorite person, my sweet, loving, never-hurt-a-fly in his life, dad is gone. One where my sister and my mother are estranged from me.
It’s been nearly two years since I’ve spoken to them. My parents divorced when Sam and I were kids. I stayed with Dad while my mom and Sam moved to the West Coast and promptly forgot that we existed. When Sam chose a college in Manhattan with a campus eight blocks from my apartment, I did my best to salvage our strained relationship. I saw Mom once when she came to visit her in the city. We went to dinner. It turned into a screaming match between the three of us and Iwalked out, cheeks red from embarrassment and wet with uncontrollable tears.
I knew my dad had regrets about Sam toward the end of his life. But unlike my mom, he always tried. He called. He sent birthday cards and Christmas cards and gifts for every occasion he could think of. How many times had I seen him pick up the phone only to be sent straight to voicemail? She barely ever returned his calls. Barely ever returned his love. And still, he found a way to blame himself for it.
So I came to resent her. I resented my mom, too.Shewas worse. Never calling to check in, to ask how his treatments were going. Neither of them even visited in the five years he was sick. Never even offered to help when I put my life on hold—mycareeron hold—to take care of him.
They had the nerve to show up at his wake, though. And the hell I gave them outside the funeral home made the New York dinner look likering around the rosie.
I had just lost my best friend. I was unhinged. Feral.
And that was the last time we spoke.
I’ve gone to therapy. I’ve worked on that resentment, that anger and bitterness, and for the most part, I let it go. But something about seeing her at my father’s side here…
I feel a strange sense of envy. How cruel can the universe be? Why does she get to be his daughter after all this, after everything…and I don’t? I’m the one who took care of him. I’m the one who knew him, who loved him so fiercely that when he died a light went out in me that never rekindled.
The way she barely acknowledged him in the throne room and at the dining room table…it sparked that anger in me again. Because not only does she get to be his daughter. But I can bet she takes it for granted every day of her royal life.
“Are you alright, my lady?” Sir Warryn’s voice jars me from my thoughts. His eyes fall to my hands, and it’s only then that Ibecome aware of the white knuckle death grip I’ve been inflicting on the poor, innocent broomstick in my grasp.
“Sorry,” I apologize reflexively, easing up on my clutch. “I’m fine.”
I aimlessly sweep the broom across the hall’s impeccable marble floor. In the light of day, the snow-capped mountains are even closer than I realized, standing majestically just beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows.
“Why don’t they just use magic to clean this place?” I mutter.
“Oh, they do.” Sir Warryn faces me, hands folded behind him.
“Then why am I holding this broom?” I lean my elbow on the tip of the broomstick as I level a look at the young guard. He clears his throat uncomfortably, a timid expression on his handsome face.
“The captain said you were to do things—manually.”
“I’m guessing you made some polite revisions to his order. Come on, what else did he say?”
“Until you reveal your own magic, he said, you shouldn’t have the 'privilege of benefiting from ours.'” His face is pained as he rushes to explain. “Not all of us share in his sentiment, my lady.”
I offer him a smile. “I know, Sir Warryn. Thank you for your honesty. And your kindness.”
I continue to mindlessly sweep the broom back and forth along the empty corridor.
“I don’t have any,” I finally say, earning an inquisitive look from the young fae. I meet his gaze. He’s mostly lanky, not a lot of muscle. His shiny, black armor fits him loosely, like he hasn’t yet grown into it.
“I don’t have any magic. Not that I know of,” I explain.
“But Madame Gnorr all but confirmed you are a witch.”
“Yes, a witch with no magic. Even if I do have it, and it’s just dormant inside me, I don’t think I can access it on my own.”
“Why not? Have you ever tried?”
“Not really. I’m from the human world. We don’t have the kind of magic that exists here.”
“There are no witches in the mortal world?” he asks, his brow raising.
“Some call themselves witches, but I don’t think the magic is anywhere near comparable.”
The magic here is a little more potent than manifesting your dream life from a vision board.
